Weird Wednesday

I spent two and a half hours going over loan papers with the mortgage chick today.  I signed things, I listened as she explained things.  I turned over other things.  She made copies of this and that and some other stuff.  I signed some more stuff.

She has every single thing she needs except one sheet of paper, which she can have on Monday.

And I am spent.  I have reached the end of my abilities to think about anything with any kind of sense.

But I feel a kind of calm, because it it out of my hands.  I have done all I can do and now?

Now it is up to the house itself and whether it passes inspection and if it appraises for the price they want for it and if it doesn’t have termites.  If all that is as it should be, then we will move forward.

And I will own a home.

Which will be some of the most fucked-up crazy delightful shit I’ve ever heard.

I will go back to pondering what color to paint my room and how to get a little wall hanging that says

One’s own house is best, though small it may be;
each man is master at home;
though he have but two goats and a bark-thatched hut
’tis better than craving a boon.

Where, I ask you, are the heathen gift shops on the Net that will carry that kind of stuff for a girl?

Ha, maybe I can get something made at Cafepress…

Anyway, NM sent me a link to this book and I cannot wait to read it.  The book, not the link.

But I guess you knew that.

Could We Trace the Rise of the Patriarchy to the Rise of Private Property?

Because, I have to admit, at this point, no matter how big an asshole he was, I would give a whole cow and my last name to the first guy who walked through my door and said “I know where last month’s bank statement is.  I shall find it and I shall talk to the mortgage people and I shall, from here on out, keep track of where all this stuff is.  Now, get in the kitchen and bring me a beer.”

Tragically, our marriage would end in divorce shortly after dinner, when I refused to do the dishes, but back in the olden days, when you couldn’t easily get divorced, I would have just had to either suck it up and do the dishes or pop out some girl children to do them for me.

And then, I would plop myself into the Cumberland, and float away down the river on my giant ass.  I mean, my butt.  But, if I could find a great big swimming burro, you know you’d all be like “Oh, B., show us pictures of your giant ass.  Oh, B., can we come over and touch your giant ass?”  And I’d totally let you, because I like you.  Just don’t tell my husband, you know, the man with my family’s prized cow, that you found me.  That’s all I ask.

Oh, and also for you not to tell my new husband, Andrew Jackson, about the old one.

Okay, thanks.

Where were we?

Hee, sorry, I mean, come on.  Where else can you go to read blog posts still dogging on poor Rachel Donelson for having two husbands?

My dad and I were out at the Hermitage watching the movie and in the movie they’re reading letters back and forth.  In one, Jackson’s all like “Rachel, here’s an Indian kid I stole.  Please raise him as your own.” And in another, he signs it “Your husband, Andrew Jackson” and I lean over to my dad and I’m all like “‘Andrew Jackson.’ Like there might be some confusion over what the last name of her husband is?” and then in the very next scene, they explain about her unfortunate first husband and how she did indeed have two husbands at the same time!

And, let me also state for the record that, if you had a husband who was as big a fucker as Lewis Robards, you probably also would be looking to trade him in for someone new AND you would probably be unsurprised to learn that he was a lying liar who lied when he told you that he had obtained a divorce from you.

Where were we?

Oh, yes, the house stuff.  I had but two goals for last night.  Find last month’s bank statement and find my checks.  I wrote a check for the earnest money with the last check in my checkbook and that was the first check I’d written in years.  With online banking, I never write checks anymore and I had no idea where to find more.

I found weird stuff like you wouldn’t believe.  Conditioner, The Wake Forest Book of Irish Women’s Poetry, a hair brush, a light-up spoon, and AND my checks.

But I never did find the bank statement from April to May.

Which, in it’s own way, is really amazing, because I apparently never throw anything away.

But, on the other hand, thanks to the awesomeness of computers and the internet and the place I work, I have two years worth of W-2s and other tax forms.

So, I score big on the stuff that should be more difficult and flub the dismount, I guess is what I’m saying.

Let’s not end on that, though.  Instead, let’s turn to Moya Cannon, one of my favorite Irish poets.


Some of what we love
we stumble upon–
a purse of gold thrown on the road,
a poem, a friend, a great song.
And more
discloses itself to us–
a well among green hazels,
a nut thicket–
when we are worn out searching
for something quite different.
And more
comes to us, carried
as carefully
as a bright cup of water,
as new bread.